


all the battles i've won (they don't matter now you're gone)

by montecarlos



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: The times that he thinks about Marc grow less and less as time goes on, until Austria.As Valentino sits in his garage, five years later, still in his Yamaha leathers with a cool cloth pressed against his pounding temples, he finds himself thinking of Marc.
Relationships: Marc Marquez/Valentino Rossi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	all the battles i've won (they don't matter now you're gone)

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic kinda jumped on me and demanded I write it - it's a style that I don't really write anymore, but I wanted to push myself and see if I could write something that was a little more demanding. It's set after the first Austrian GP, and I've tried to make it as realistic as possible. Warnings for mentions of Marco and Luis's death, I've tried to handle them in a way that is respectful to the story. Title from Now You're Gone by Tom Walker ft Zara Larsson. 
> 
> Thanks to J + L for cheerleading, and to you for reading.

Valentino remembers everything about the night that they had broken apart. It had been almost inevitable, the cracks were already showing. Sepang had never been quite the same since Marco died - and 2015 had been no better. He still regrets it, deep down, the way that Marc had stood in the pouring rain after the race with tears falling down his cheeks, his leathers still ripped from where he had hit the gravel. He had cut Marc out with cruel words and he had known that he shouldn’t, but he could feel the tenth title slipping away from his fingers. They were never the same after that - even after Luis’s death, Valentino couldn’t bring himself to knock on Marc’s door. He knows that Marc would have broken down all the walls around his heart again, so he settles for firm handshakes and affectionate slaps and if his fingers linger for a moment too long on Marc’s leathers, neither of them say anything. He pushed Marc from his mind the best that he could, but it is difficult. Marc is everywhere. Marc _is_ MotoGP, like Valentino used to be - so it’s hard to try and pretend that Marc isn’t there. Valentino can only watch Marc win from the screens in the garage as his engineers speak to him in rapid fire Italian, and there’s times that he wonders who Marc celebrates with now. The times that he thinks about Marc grow less and less as time goes on, until Austria.   
  
As Valentino sits in his garage, five years later, still in his Yamaha leathers with a cool cloth pressed against his pounding temples, he finds himself thinking of Marc. He barely remembers the accident, it’s a mere blur of colour and sound but it replays on the television screen a few feet away from his chair and he watches again in horror as Franky’s bike sails across the track, missing himself and Maverick by a few inches. Valentino knows he’s lucky to be alive. He knows that Marco is looking down on him. He glances up towards the cloudless sky and he whispers a silent thanks to his friend for watching over him. His thoughts turn once again to Marc for some reason - Marc who is probably at his house in Cervera with a broken bone and shattered confidence - and he wonders what the younger man had thought of it all. They always say that when you experience something close to death that the things that you find important come to the forefront of your mind, and Valentino feels a bitter taste in the back of his throat at the mere thought. He shrugs off the worried glances of his mechanics and moves towards his bike, kneeling down next to her to begin his routine again. He speaks to his bike, his calloused fingers slowly moving over the faring, over the logos that have changed over the years - and then he’s back on the bike, as he should be, where he feels at home.   
  
He finishes fifth, and it feels like a victory. His team is there to greet them with wide smiles and congratulations and he accepts them as he always has. But as he’s sat in debrief, the cheers of the Ducati team echoing through the garages, his gaze flickers back to another screen that shows the crash once again, and how perilously close he had come to being seriously injured - and it chills him to the bone. He’s had his fair share of injuries, of broken bones, of bruises and moments when he felt his heart smash against his ribcage as he hit the asphalt. But all he has to show for his near-miss in Austria is a few scrapes here and there and he’s thankful to end the debrief and retire to his motorhome to lick his wounds. He’s barely managed to sink into the soft leather of his couch when his phone sounds out. Pressing a fingertip to the home screen, he catches a glimpse of his numerous messages mostly from the Academy boys and a worried Uccio, but there’s a number that he does not recognise. Ordinarily, he would delete the message without reading, but something makes him stop.   
  
+34. It’s a Spanish dialling code.   
  
With his heart slamming heavily against his chest harder than he wants to admit, he opens up the message.   
  
**_I hope you’re okay._ ** **_  
_** **_  
_** It’s _him_. Valentino knows that it is him. He wonders briefly through what means that Marc had acquired his new number, but presumably it was down to baby Marquez’s relationship with his little brother. He knows that he should delete the message in the same way that he deleted Marc from his life previously but he can’t bring himself to do so. His thoughts once again turn to the accident and he thinks about Marc watching everything at home unfold before his very eyes, powerless to do anything but watch, his arm still hanging uselessly by his side, a constant reminder that he cannot be on his bike. Valentino glances over the message again, noting the obvious concern in Marc’s tone, and he bites down on his lip. If he replies, he knows that he’s giving into the promise that he made to himself - he doesn’t know if he wants to let Marc in again, not after the last time. But there’s a small part of him that wants to reply, and that’s the part of himself that he ends up listening to. Typing up a short reply, he presses send before he can stop himself, blue eyes focusing on the tick at the side of the message.   
  
There’s no going back now.   
  
He’s going back over the accident again in his mind, scrolling through his phone at the photos that managed to be captured of the incident. For him, it’s still a blur of shapes, colours and sounds, but seeing the photos makes his mind go back to that moment and he realises how lucky he truly is. There’s a few bruises on his body and a dull ache in his bones that he tries not tell himself is for the sheer exertion of fighting with his Yamaha for over forty minutes every race weekend. Valentino is focused on a particular poignant photo of the bike a few inches away from his own when he hears the soft knock at the door. Raising an eyebrow, he slowly pulls himself to his feet whilst ignoring the dull ache in his upper shoulder. He wrenches the door open, expecting to find Luca or someone else from the Academy on the other side, but it’s not.   
  
It’s _him._   
  
Valentino stares at Marc for a few moments longer than necessary, blinking a few times as though the mirage of the man in front of him will dissipate. But Marc remains in the doorway, his face half hidden by the shadows. He’s dressed in a plain soft dove-grey hoodie, his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he turns his brown eyes towards the older man. To anyone else, Marc would look normal - but Valentino knows him like the back of his hand, he’s traced over every scar that has made it’s way onto Marc’s body - and the younger man looks drained and tired. Valentino’s heart twists ever so slightly at the sight of the bruises underneath pale golden skin and the slight shadow of stubble that decorates Marc’s face.   
  
“Can I come in?” Marc’s voice is soft and hesitant.   
  
Valentino thinks about slamming in the door in his face, like the last time that Marc tried to reconcile with him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He steps to the side wordlessly, allowing the shorter Spaniard to slip past him. Marc hesitates, standing in the middle of the lounge area, his eyes taking in the sight of Valentino’s leathers still crumpled up and torn from the incident in a pile on the floor, his telemetry notes written in a tight crumpled hand scattered haphazardly over the cushions.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Valentino finally finds his voice, watching the younger man cautiously as Marc spins around to face him. “Why aren’t you back in Spain?”   
  
“I came out here to help Alex with the bike,” Marc murmurs out, his tone still low and guarded. “But then I saw what happened and I just had to see that you were alright-”   
  
He closes his eyes. Marc’s words are sincere and he knows that. “I’m fine, I’ve been through worse,” The survivor’s guilt of Sepang doesn’t need to be said but it hangs in the air threateningly. The silence stretches out between the pair, and Valentino feels his heart ache at the lack of sound. He remembers when Marc would talk about anything and everything, his laugh echoing through the air as they lay in bed together after races, Marc’s fingers slowly tracing over the tattoo on his hip. But that Marc is no more. He’s been replaced by this other version who is all hard edges and silence.   
  
“I know you’re not fine,” Marc finally cuts through the silence, moving closer to the Italian. “I know you,”   
  
Valentino feels his eyes slip closed. Does Marc still know him? Did he ever know Marc to begin with? He tries not to think about what they used to be, before everything got in the way and before Marc changed. “Do you really know me anymore, Marc?”   
  
The slight inhale of breath tells him that his words have stung the younger man. “Vale-” Marc murmurs out, his voice still soft but tinged with hurt. “Maybe I don’t anymore, but I would like to,”   
  
Valentino bites down on his lip, trying to ignore the clench of his heart. Marc has always been his weakness, he’s always managed to get himself beneath Valentino’s skin, buried deep into the confines of his heart. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,”   
  
Marc cocks his head and pouts, and it’s an expression that Valentino has grown used to. He’s used to this immature side of Marc, the one that is used to winning and getting exactly what he wants. “Why isn’t it a good idea?” He steps closer to Valentino, his face a few inches away from the taller man.   
  
“You know why, Marc,” Valentino tries to avert his gaze. He’s aware of how close Marc is, close enough for them to touch. He can pick out the tiny freckles that decorate the bridge of Marc’s noses, the ones that he used to press a kiss to every night before bed. “It’s not good for us,”   
  
“Oh really?” There’s something in Marc’s eyes that Valentino knows well. He can see the flash of hunger and longing and want as Marc leans in, the familiar scent that is intrinsically Marc curls in the air and Valentino feels as though his heart is about to smash out of his chest. He moves his head at the last moment and Marc’s lips end up landing on his cheek, heating the skin there.   
  
“Marc, no,” Valentino’s hands come up to slowly pull Marc away. “We can’t do this, you should just go,”   
  
“I’m not leaving until we talk properly,” Marc’s tone is the same one he used when he stood in the doorway of Valentino’s motorhome after Sepang in the pouring rain. But this time, instead of walking away, Marc grabs hold of Valentino’s hand and tugs him over to the couch. “We have to talk about this,”   
  
Valentino sighs heavily. “What is there to talk about? You walked away from me all those years ago, you let me believe that you had fucked Jorge behind my back for the sake of a title and now you’re back because you’re worried about me?”   
  
“I didn’t fuck Jorge and you _know_ that, Vale,” Marc snaps back immediately. “And the incident made me realise that life is too short, it’s too short to pretend that I don’t still feel something for you-” He pauses for a moment. “And I don’t want to pretend anymore,”   
  
“We hurt each other too much, Marc,” Valentino finds he cannot hold Marc’s gaze. He knows that if he looks into those chocolate brown eyes again, that the thin walls of his resolve will crumble. “I hurt you, and you hurt me. We threw each other away for a title, a title that in the end meant nothing,”   
  
Marc remains silent, but Valentino can feel his gaze burning into him as his hand slowly reaches out to slowly grasp at Valentino’s knee. “I-” his voice wavers slightly. “I am so sorry for how I acted, I was just hurting that I wasn’t in the title hunt - and I just thought that you would forgive me for what I did, because you loved me,”   
  
“And I loved you too, but I couldn’t forgive you for that. You broke my heart twice,” Valentino glances down at the floor. It still hurts to think about it but it’s true- he had lost not only the tenth championship title that he had wanted, but also his love for Marc. “And I couldn’t let you do that, not when I let you in-” He pauses, gaze fixed on the floor trying not to focus on Marc’s hand rubbing small circles on his leg. It feels good - he’s sure that he has a bruise somewhere around the area that Marc is touching from his accident, but it’s nothing compared to the bruises that Marc had left on his heart. But the touch feels like a hope, like the old times.   
  
Marc remains silent for a moment, his hand slowly moving over Valentino’s leg. “I’m sorry,” His voice is low and sorrowful. “I never wanted to break your heart-”   
  
Valentino wants nothing more than to deny Marc’s words but he knows he’s right. Marc had broken his heart, he’d crushed the pieces into the dirt along with Valentino’s dream of the tenth title.   
  
“I never stopped loving you,”   
  
Valentino feels his head whip up at the declaration. “What?” He whispers, his mouth dry as he stares at Marc. The younger man meets his gaze, his eyes glittering with unshed tears.   
  
“I still love you, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop,” Marc admits, his hand moving to clasp around Valentino’s, the older man’s gaze on the fresh puckered scar on his right arm, bruises still evident on the pale golden skin. “And I never stopped caring about you, and I’m sorry that it took all this time and you almost dying for me to see that-”   
  
“You still love me,” Valentino cuts Marc off mid-speech.   
  
“Yes, I do,” Marc doesn’t hesitate. “And I understand if you don’t love me anymore but I had to tell you-”   
  
“I do,” Valentino murmurs out and Marc stops, his dark eyes widening. “I do still love you, and you’re right, the accident made me think about what is important to me, and when I was back in the garage, I thought of you,” He can see the corner of Marc’s lips upturn as he continues. “And I know that it’s going to be difficult but I want to try again,”   
  
“I’d like that,” Marc’s smile grows wider and wider.   
  
Valentino can’t stop himself from smiling, his hand is still in Marc’s - but now it’s changed. It feels like it’s supposed to be there, instead of like a splinter that needs to be pulled out. It feels like it’s a part of him and when Marc leans in this time to press their lips together, it feels like he’s coming home. Marc still tastes the same as he did then, the salt from the tears that have escaped from his eyes mingling with the taste that he cannot place. Valentino pours himself and everything he has into the kiss. The thing between himself and Marc has always been somewhat indescribable, but everything suddenly feels clear. Every ache, both physical and mental, seems to vanish as Marc’s tongue slowly traces over the crease of his lips, his fingers dancing over Valentino’s arms committing the touch again to memory.   
  
“I love you,” Marc whispers as they pull away, his forehead resting against Valentino’s.   
  
“I love you too,” Valentino replies with a smile. The bruises on his skin remain, but the ones over his heart are beginning to heal. 

* * *

_  
I thought I was winning but I was dying_   
_Everything we never had_   
_Losing you is what I want fighting_

_Oh, all the battles that I've won_   
_They don't matter now you're gone_   
_Nothing matters now you're gone_


End file.
